So Childish
by eimi lexie
Summary: A series of one-shots and drabbles exploring Sherlock's troubled childhood. Now finished!
1. Round and Round the Garden

**Round and Round the Garden, Like a Teddy Bear**

**Disclaimer: It's not mine, not really. Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. **

**A/N: The finale of Sherlock was _amazing_, but one of the things that struck me was that altough Sherlock doesn't know that the Earth moves around the Sun (_how? _Seriously, _how?_) he does know nursery rhymes. **

He doesn't remember much about her.

He doesn't remember the shape of her face or the colour of her eyes, or the way her ears felt as he whispered into them when he was shy. He doesn't remember how she used to dress, or whether she was fat or thin.

He does, however, remember the way her face lit up when she was happy, and he remembers how her hair would swing forwards as she laughed.

He loved hearing her laugh. She would bend over ever so slightly and her eyes would crease up at the corners. One hand would fly to cover her mouth, her shoulders (which, now he thinks about it, were fairly bony) would shake and a sweet, melodic noise would bubble up in her throat and rush out between her lips into the air and hang there, like the seeds of a dandelion clock before they are blown away.

He remembers the way she would sing nursery rhymes to him as a child.

_"Round and round the garden,_

_Like a teddy bear,_

_One step, two step…_

_Tickle him under there!" _

She would grab him by his chest and tickle him, long fingers reaching for his flanks and underarms and the crooks of his elbows. He would squeal and giggle and beg her to stop.


	2. You Promised, Mycroft

**You Promised, Mycroft**

**Disclaimer: Not mine (well, not yet).**

**A/N: My take on why Sherlock and Mycroft fell out. It's very depressing- you have been warned. The book is a Bible (hence its old-ness. Please don't ask me why a Bible) and the reason Mycroft is angry with their mother is...obvious, and the reason he's angry with their father is that he didn't support them enough. Just to clear up any confusion. Enjoy!**

He was sitting in the playroom with Mycroft, a large book open on his lap. He turned the pages carefully, looking at the bright and detailed images painted onto the thin, yellowed pages in wonder. He traced the ornate letters at the beginnings of verses and wondered why they had lasted so long.

"Mycroft," he said suddenly, his thoughts changing track faster than a man can blink, "when can we see Mama?"

Mycroft tensed and pushed his glasses up his nose. "Soon."

"You're lying." Sherlock said, eyes narrowed. Mycroft was always lying.

Sherlock's brother sighed and pulled his glasses off. He held the younger boy's gaze for a moment before he said anything. "We can't see Mama again, Sherlock."

"Why?"

"Because she…killed herself in the hospital yesterday."

"But…but you said they'd make her better! You said they'd make her happy again, Mycroft!"

Mycroft swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to wipe away the tears welling up in his eyes. "I know. I miss her too, Sherlock. I- "

"No!" the little boy jumped from his seat and stood with silver droplets running down his cheeks and curls of dark hair falling into his colourless eyes. His small hands were clenched into fists and he was shaking. "I don't care about you! You lied!You _promised _she'd get better and you _lied!_"

He ran out of the room sobbing. He didn't stop until he reached his bedroom. Sherlock crumpled onto his bed and screamed into the pillow.

It took six months for Sherlock to calm down enough to talk to his brother, and another four for them to stop fighting with each other. They'd never gotten on well- they were too different. But this was hatred on a much grander and more destructive scale than any of their relatives had ever thought possible.

Twenty-six years later, Sherlock Holmes still hasn't forgiven him. And Mycroft Holmes still hasn't forgiven their parents for making his little brother hate him.


	3. Was It My Fault?

**Was It My Fault?**

**Disclaimer: Still not mine, but I live in hope.**

**A/N: I am so, so sorry. I am really, truly sorry. It's been...forever since I updated. Thank you from the bottom of my heart to everyone who's reviewed or put this on alert etc. It's just been a bit hectic for me recently, and everything's getting a bit too much but I'm fine! And I PROMISE to update again by the end of next week. Enjoy.**

There was a quiet knock at the door, barely perceptible. Mycroft looked up sharply from his book.

"Come in."

The door opened slowly, and soft footsteps made their way to the end of Mycroft's bed. Sherlock stood, shaking, with his head down and hands clenched into fists.

"Mycroft…did I make Mummy unhappy?"

The elder boy looked puzzled. "What?"

"Did I make Mummy unhappy? Is…is it my fault she's dead?"

"What? No!" Mycroft sighed, "Sherlock, don't be an idiot. Of course Mummy didn't kill herself because of you."

Sherlock raised his head slowly. His pale eyes were blazing. "How do I know you're not lying?"

"Why would I be _lying_, Sherlock?"

"Because you always are. I knew I shouldn't have come to you. You're _useless, _Mycroft."

"Now, calm down. You're-"

"Shut. Up. Mycroft. Why is it that whenever I need your help you're always so bloody useless? You never ever listen to me. You don't care about me at all, do you?"

"Sherlock, you're being stupid."

"Oh, yeah, that's me- your stupid brother. Well, you know what, Mycroft? I'm _not_ stupid. One day you'll realise that. One day I'll prove it!"

By now his cheeks were burning red and his entire body was shaking violently. He looked ready to kill someone. Mycroft swallowed, but his cool façade did not crack. Sherlock spun around on his heel and stormed out.

The door slammed and plaster fell from the ceiling, like icing sugar into a bowl, and Mycroft Holmes sighed.

* * *

**A/N: I hope you liked it. I think Sherlock's probably about eleven or twelve in this. Oh, and does anybody know what the age gap between Sherlock and Mycroft is? **


	4. Harrow Part One

**Harrow: Part One**

**A/N: It didn't save my author's note last time. Hi. I have updated, as promised. I hope you all enjoy it. Thank you to all the wonderful people who have reviewed or favourited etc. I love you. Sherlock is thirteen in this one. And here is something to scare you: Benedict Cumberbatch went to Harrow as well, but I didn't find that out until after I'd written this. I am, in fact, psychic. Enjoy.**

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"Sherlock, darling, we need to have a little talk."

Sherlock just stared at the simpering blonde woman on the sofa in front of him, his expression blank. His father shifted himself on the seat and cleared his throat.

"Sherlock, we think it would be best if you were to go to boarding school. Mycroft got on very well at Harrow and…we want you to go there as well."

Sherlock looked at his father for a moment. "When's the entrance exam?"

"Next March. We've spoken to the school about it and they're very-"

"All right. I'll do it."

His father and his stepmother glanced at each other. Sherlock stood on the rug before them, staring through the rain-soaked window at the front lawn. He did not seem upset by the news. He did not seem angry. If anything, he seemed bored.

"So…we'll put your name down then? For the exam?" his stepmother's wide brown eyes had grown even wider, and she was looking up at him through black lashes heavy with mascara. She had that expression on her face that meant she thought Sherlock was repressing something. She fancied she knew a lot about psychology.

Sherlock nodded. "Can I go now?"

"Well…ye-es…"

Sherlock turned and walked out of the room.

There was a moment of silence between the two adults left on the sofa.

"Thank God for that."

Nine months later, a tall, skinny dark-haired boy stood surrounded by other small, frightened children in The Grove, being shepherded around by one of the older boys. Sherlock wasn't listening much to what he was saying; he'd work out what he had to do. He was more interested in the boys around him. It was time to practice his deducting skills.

The boy next to him was an only child; there was a boy in front of him who had had a relative in the school in about 1975; at the edge of the group there was a tiny child who had asthma. There were two more boys nearby, but they were behind him. One of them had a limp.

He was put into a room with the only child. He sniffled as he unpacked his suitcase.

"What's wrong with you?" Sherlock asked. The crying was beginning to irritate him.

The boy shook his head. "Nothing. I just miss home."

"Oh." Sherlock was content to leave it at that, but his roommate seemed intent on continuing the conversation.

"What's your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"James Smith. It's nice to meet you." And he smiled. He had a sweet smile. His lips cracked open to reveal crooked white teeth and his bright green eyes sparkled.

Sherlock nodded.

"Where're you from?"

"London."

"Wow. I'm from Canterbury. London's probably more exciting."

Sherlock shrugged and continued to unpack his things. James didn't try talking to him again until they were going to sleep that night.

"Good day?"

"It was all right."

Sherlock could hear the smile in his roommate's voice. "Good."


	5. Carl Powers

**Carl Powers**

**Summary: Well, you can guess, can't you? Sherlock begins his career as the world's only consulting detective. Or, tries to.**

**Disclaimer: It's not mine. Sherlock's stepmother, however, might be.**

**A/N: I'm here! I'm back! I'm not dead or in a coma or in prison and I haven't fallen through a tear in time and space to 1955. And I am really, really sorry. I'm just a horrible person. I should've updated weeks and weeks ago but I'm lazy. You have permission to hunt me down and kill me. Before that, enjoy.**

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Sherlock had found himself being surprised far too often recently.

First there had been his roommate – he'd actually wanted to be friends with him. Sherlock had, of course, ignored the poor boy; it did no good to care about people. Caring about them only made it easier for them to hurt you.

And then his father had asked him to come home for the holidays. And picked him up from the school. He'd been half an hour late but he had nevertheless picked him up.

And now they were sitting around the kitchen table, all calmly munching toast. Sherlock had over the years perfected the art of completely ignoring everyone around him, and he was for once content. Mycroft sat across the table from him, stirring tea he wasn't going to drink. His father sat at the head of the table reading the paper. His stepmother, thank goodness, was in New York for some child psychology conference.

Sherlock glanced at the paper. _Tragedy Strikes At Local Swimming Pool_, the headline read.

"Dad,"

His father grunted.

"Can I have a look at your paper?"

"Just a minute son; I want to check the business section."

"I only want to read that story about the swimming pool."

His father sighed and pulled the relevant pages out. The sigh was the kind of sigh that only people who have been put upon for so many years that they have ceased to be merely _resigned_ can produce. Sherlock ignored it and grabbed the newspaper

He read the story. He read it and re-read it. He'd always liked being able to see through things; to observe details about people and things that everyone else missed. And there was something decidedly wrong about this story.

Carl Powers had been a champion swimmer who'd come to London from Sussex to take part in a school swimming tournament. Sherlock didn't care about any of that. Carl Powers had had a fit in the swimming pool in the middle of a race and drowned. He'd left all his clothes, his lunch and a book in a locker. His shoes, however, had disappeared. Sherlock cared about that.

The paper didn't seem to think anything of it. Neither, apparently, did the police. They were not, the paper said, treating it as suspicious.

But it _was _suspicious. Sherlock said as much.

His father scoffed. "Don't be stupid, son. If it was suspicious then the police would be looking into it."

Sherlock turned to Mycroft in desperation. "Don't you see it? His shoes _weren't there. _They'd _gone._"

Mycroft shrugged. "So? They probably got stolen."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "_No. _No, they weren't _stolen. _They were _missing._"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and went back to stirring his tea.

Sherlock was starting to get annoyed. Over the next eleven days, he grew steadily more annoyed. No one would listen. _No one. _Not his father, not his stepmother, not the police, not _Mycroft. _No one! He even resorted to calling up James (who'd given Sherlock his home number on the last day of term) and he wouldn't listen either. He was more interested than anyone else but he didn't really _listen_.

Sherlock wouldn't stop talking about it. He devoted all his time and energy to the case over the holidays. He disappeared for five hours on Christmas day to visit the swimming pool, which was, of course, closed. One day, three days before the start of the spring term, he was thrown out of the police station before being warned that if he tried to bother them about Carl Powers again he'd be arrested for wasting police time.

Sherlock wanted to tear his hair out by the time he got back to school. Why would Carl Powers leave all his things in the locker _except_ his shoes? It didn't make any sense. Sherlock wanted to know what had happened to Carl Powers' shoes. He wanted to know why he'd been killed, because he had been killed; any idiot could have seen that if they were looking.

Sherlock wanted to know the _truth_.


	6. Cricket

**Cricket**

**Disclaimer: I...don't...do I have to? I do. Fine...I don't...own...Sherlock...there, are you happy now? You've made me cry. Well done.**

**A/N: First of all, I would like to point out that none of what happens in this or any of the other stories in this fic are based on actual events. This may seem obvious to you, but nevertheless, I feel compelled to point it out. Just pretend that this is a magical Harrow in an alternative Universe with different pupils, members of staff and a completely different history. Well, completely different sine 1989 onwards.**

** This was sitting on my computer looking lonely, so I thought I should post it. I don't if there will be any more. I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed writing these. Anyway, without further ado...**

* * *

"He's lovely. Don't you think he's lovely?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Well, he is."

It was one of those rare, gloriously sunny English days in the middle of May and Sherlock and James were both holed up in the boys' bathroom so Sherlock could work on a 'case'. James, despite his love of the outdoors – and the captain of the cricket team – was in there with him, watching his best friend test a soil sample with equipment stolen from the Chemistry labs.

He sighed. "Sherlock,"

His only reply was a vague grunt.

"How long are you going to be in here? Because cricket practice ends in half an hour."

"You can go…to be honest all you're doing is distracting me," there was a small explosion and the room filled with pale white smoke. Sherlock frowned. "I'd try not to breathe that in if I were you."

James rolled his eyes and pulled his sleeve over his mouth.

"I didn't think you liked…um…thingy anyway, you said you had a crush on me." He made the word crush sound like a disease.

"Who, Gregory? The boy I've been talking about non-stop for the past three weeks? The boy I spent the whole of yesterday's English lesson staring at? Him? Oh, no. No, I don't fancy him _at all_. And as for you - I got over you _ages _ago, mate. Keep up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back to stirring an odd blue concoction over a Bunsen burner. James wondered what it had to do with soil.

"Sherlock, what are you actually _doing _with all of that stuff anyway?"

Sherlock sighed. "I'm _trying _to test the chalkiness of this soil. I can't work out where it came from. But if it came from where I think it came from then Mr Lovett has got nothing to with it, but if it didn't then he probably _has _and all I'll need to do is have a look round his rooms to see whether I can find the book or not. But if it didn't come from where I think it came from and the book's not in his rooms I'm stuck. But…it did. So I was right, it was Dr Taylor. Come on, we've got some sleuthing to do."

James felt like crying. Whenever Sherlock started babbling like that it gave him a headache, and 'sleuthing' usually took a lot of time and resulted in both of them getting into a lot of trouble. And he would miss cricket practice altogether.

"Sherlock, do I _have _to come with you?"

"Yes. I need someone to keep a look out."

"Couldn't you just do this later?"

"No. Time is of the essence. Come on!"

Two hours later they were both standing outside the headmaster's office in disgrace. James was staring at the floor with his cheeks red as an over-ripe tomato, and Sherlock was scowling at the wall.

They had, of course, been caught in Dr Taylor's rooms. This was hardly surprising seeing as they had slipped in there in broad daylight and James had had his mind on the cricket team returning to the changing rooms rather than the possibility of masters moving in and out of their studies along the corridor. But nevertheless Sherlock was somewhat put out that despite his long-winded explanation as to why they were in there rifling through the Biology teacher's personal effects they had still been carted off to the headmaster's office by a very purple doctor.

"Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock stood up, muttering something under his breath, and stalked into the office. James remained where he was, still blushing and silently lamenting his fate.

He knew it was his own fault. He _chose _to run around the school after the most insufferable fifth former the world had ever seen, getting into ridiculous amounts of trouble and never managing to get enough sleep. But there was something about Sherlock. He was arrogant, rude, callous and quite possibly insane, but he could never be described as ordinary, and James hated ordinary. Though why Sherlock chose to let James tag along with him when he pushed everyone else away remained a mystery.

The door flew open once again and Sherlock bounded through it, beaming.

"I've got him! I said I would, didn't I?"

"Sherlock, whatever are you talking about?"

"I told Frosty about the thing. And the book. And he believed me! And now I think Dr Taylor's going to prison. Isn't that brilliant?"

James stared blankly at his friend for a moment. "He believed you?"

"Yes!"

"Oh. Does that mean we'll have a new Biology teacher?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Probably."

"Shit." James had liked Dr Taylor. All right, so Sherlock had just proved he was a paedophile with a liquorice fixation, but he had let them watch videos about earthworms at Christmas and talk during his lessons.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Frosty doesn't want to talk to you anymore. Come on, let's go and find…Gregory, wasn't it?"

"Really?"

"Of course."

James grinned and hopped up to throw his arms around his friend's neck. "I bloody love you, you know that?"

"James, get off. You're strangling me."

"Sorry."

As he was looping his arm through Sherlock's to drag him towards the SCR, James couldn't help contemplating his friend. The man was a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma with galvanised armour all over it and a big threatening sign saying 'trespassers will be shot on sight'. He could create a case on casual observations and wild speculation that resulted in someone being sent to prison, but he had no idea who the prime minister was. He abhorred company and thought all his classmates and teachers beneath him and yet he was quite willing to let the most flamboyant and ridiculous boy in the year drag him off to the Senior Common Room to flirt with the captain of the cricket team. He made, in short, no sense whatsoever.

"I'm not that weird you know."

That was another thing about him. He could read minds.

James sighed. "You are."

"I don't think I am."

"Yes, but you wouldn't, would you?"

Sherlock considered this for a moment. "I suppose not."

"I don't understand you, Sherlock. I don't understand you at all."

"No one does."

"Why do you hang out with me?"

Sherlock raised one dark eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Well, what's the difference between me and the rest of the school?"

Sherlock grinned. "None of you understand me, right?"

"Right."

"So you're just like them. Except you're willing to follow me around regardless of the fact I never explain anything to you and treat you like you're see-through. You see?"

James smiled, trying to hide his blush. "Screw cricketers. Let's go into town."

"Really?"

"Yup. I think Gregory's straight anyway. I have a better chance with you."

"I wouldn't bet on it."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

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**A/N: Voila. Sherlock and James, being themselves. By the way, James is no one in particular. He is simply Sherlock's friend, though Sherlock himself would never admit it. I can assure you that James is not Irish, his surname is not Moriarty, and he would not just be 'playing gay'. Oh no. Hope you liked it, and have a nice...day/evening/morning/night/shower/zombie apocalypse.**


	7. Harrow Part Two

**Harrow Part Two, or Sherlock Fails to Understand the Basic Laws of Love and Friendship**

**Disclaimer: Yeah, I own nothing. Except James. James is _mine_. So hands off.**

**A/N: Woo! 'Tis an update. First of all: thank you so so so so _so _much to all of the amazing, fantastic, heavenly people who have reviewed/favourited/put this on alert/read this. I love you all with a fierce, burning passion. You're _awesome_. Every last one of you. Should I stop now? I should? All right then. Secondly: there is very, very light one-sided slash in this chapter. And drug abuse. You have been warned.**

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"Ahem, ahem, ahem."

Sherlock ignored the coughing. He stared through the thick silvery smoke at the pale ceiling, arms lying limp on the bed. A thin white spliff rested between the fingers on his right hand. His usually stormy eyes were calm and red. His heart rate was climbing fast. His muscles felt heavy and soft and his hands were cold.

"A_hem._"

Sherlock blinked lazily. "Hello, James."

James sighed and threw his bag onto the floor. "What are you _doing, _Sherlock?"

Sherlock smiled. "I'm quite sure I've no idea what you're talking about, Jam."

"Jam?"

"Mmmm…"

James sighed and settled onto the chair by Sherlock's desk. He was getting sick of this. Sherlock couldn't keep taking so many drugs; he'd destroy himself. Almost everyone in their year smoked – including James – but Sherlock was giving the word 'junkie' a new and terrifying meaning.

"Sherlock, it stinks in here. Can you at least open a window?"

Sherlock made a vague moaning noise that probably meant no. James threw himself up with a shout and glared at the prone form of his best friend, who smiled back at him with dreamy, faraway eyes.

"Sherlock!" James leapt forward, ripped the spliff from the other boy's hand and threw the window open. He stood, stony faced and panting, by Sherlock's bed.

"I am _not_ going to let you _ruin _your life like this! You act like you're above everything and nothing affects you. You act like no one cares. But d'you know what? _I _care. I care about you, Sherlock Holmes, so don't you _dare _hurt me by hurting yourself. That means no more cigarettes, no more dope, no more LSD, _nothing._ OK?"

There was a long, cannabis-induced pause. "No."

James growled and stormed out. The crash of the slamming door sent the smoke rushing out through the window and filled the space it left behind. Sherlock closed his heavy, bloodshot eyes and breathed slow and shallow.

Thirty seconds later, the door swung open again and James stood on the threshold, jaw clenched.

"Sherlock. If you don't stop this, then that's it. We're not…I won't be your friend anymore, Sherlock."

"So what you're saying is it's you or the drugs?"

James took a long, shaky breath. "Yes."

Sherlock stared vaguely at him for a minute. "All right." Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed out, and James spun on his heel to leave.

Two and a half hours later, James knocked on his door and shouted at Sherlock to come to supper. Sherlock did not reply, which was not really surprising as he was not in his room but in the headmaster's office, listening to the messages on his answering machine. If anybody had asked him _why _he was listening to the headmaster's answering machine messages then he would simply have told them that he had his suspicions.

His suspicions were confirmed and he slipped quietly out of the window and across the rugby pitch back to his room before any of the other boys had finished supper.

And that was where James found him fifteen minutes later. Sherlock was curled up in his desk chair, book in hand.

"Oh. _Hel_lo."

Sherlock nodded vaguely at him and carried on reading.

James marched over to the desk and pulled the book out of Sherlock's hands.

"_You_ are a stupid, idiotic, uncaring _bastard_, Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock blinked in surprise. "What do you mean? What have I done?"

"You spend half the day pumping yourself full of drugs, you miss all your afternoon lessons and then you don't turn up for supper. You may not care what happens to you, but _I do._ So stop all this right now!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "If you're so angry then why didn't you try and find me earlier?"

"I hoped you might make it to the dining hall. And I was hungry. But that's not the point! I shouldn't have to be looking after you."

Sherlock looked him up and down. "I doubt I would've wanted supper; I hate lasagne and…_jam roly poly?_ No. And the Chemistry seems to have been distinctly boring. I did it last week in the bathroom."

James's eyes widened. He'd thought that was shower gel. "Oh God."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Evidently they caught sight of something on the way round and he stared into James's eyes. Hard.

"Sh-Sherlock? Sherlock, please stop looking at me like that."

Sherlock blinked and leaned back in his chair. "Well. Well well well."

"What?" James squeaked.

"You're in love with me."

James sighed. "Well, yes," he smiled, and sighed, "Oh, that's a relief; I thought you'd found out something, y'know, _important_."

Sherlock frowned, puzzled. "That's not important? Don't people usually think stuff like that's important?"

James shrugged. "I don't care if you know. In fact I was surprised you hadn't already worked it out. Just don't let everyone else know. They'll murder me."

"I know. I won't."

"Good. Now, will you _promise _me to stop with all of this drugs stuff and eat properly?"

"No. Why would I?"

James growled and pushed himself away from Sherlock. "Fine then!"

The door slammed shut.

Sherlock shrugged and carried on reading.


	8. A Levels

**A Levels**

**Disclaimer: Once again I do not own Sherlock or A Levels. Neither were my idea. However, James is mine.**

**A/N: Well, here it is: your Christmas present from me. I will warn you that this has nothing to do with Christmas, and contans violence and offensive language from the start. Then it calms down a bit. Enjoy.**

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Sherlock hissed through his teeth and pressed one leg against the wall. Blood trickled down from his nose and a cut on his temple and his shoulder was stinging. His hand clenched into a fist and connected with the nose of the ringleader, sending him reeling backwards into a dustbin. Sherlock pushed himself off the wall and kicked another in the balls before spinning round on his heel.

"You bloody poof. I'll kill you!"

The boy lunged at him, eyes wild.

Sherlock began to run.

"You nervous?"

James rolled his head round to look at his friend, green eyes wide.

Sherlock ran his fingers through the other boy's thick blonde hair and stared up at the sky. "No. Why would I be?"

"We have our first A level in two hours?" James suggested.

Sherlock shrugged. "I'll be fine."

James sighed and settled his head into a more comfortable position on Sherlock's stomach. They were lying on the grass outside their dorm, Chemistry books sitting forgotten by their sides. Not that Sherlock had been revising anyway. Not that he ever did.

James, of course, was panicking. He was panicking because he'd messed up their last practical and he was panicking because he was terrified he'd forget something vital about water and he was panicking because Sherlock appeared to have done no revision at all and he was still pumping his body full of toxins – alcohol and cannabis and nicotine and LSD and anything else he could find that would expand his mind or close it down. He was panicking because there was a suspicious cut on Sherlock's temple and Paul Robinson was wandering around with a broken nose.

Sherlock looked down at his friend and sighed. "You'll be all right, Jam."

James grinned. "Thanks, Sherlock."

An hour and a half later, they went up to their rooms to put their revision notes away and get their things for the exam.

Halfway through the paper, Sherlock leaned back in his seat and stared up at the ceiling, tracing patterns in the plaster.

It was not difficult, not for him. Absorbing the necessary information to pass this particular exam had not taken long, and since he'd managed to forget every single scrap of Second Year History and the name of the current Prime Minister he'd had plenty of space to spare.

He looked down at the paper. He looked back up at the ceiling.

He'd done well. He knew he had.

On the 19th August 1994, Sherlock was pacing up and down on the soft white rug in the living room, waiting impatiently for his father.

It was results day. He needed to know what he'd got. He knew he'd passed everything, and Oxford had offered to take him if he got three D's but he _needed _to know what he'd got. He needed to know if he'd beaten Mycroft.

Maybe that was childish but he didn't care. He had to beat Mycroft. He _had_ to.

That afternoon at a quarter past two, he was standing in the hall clutching the envelope, breathing deeply.

James was standing beside him, holding his own letter and staring quietly up at his friend.

"Are you gonna open it?"

Sherlock blinked slowly and looked over at James. "…Yes. Yes, I am. I'm just…I don't know. Nothing." He tore open the envelope.

_Chemistry….A_

_Biology….A_

_Geography…A_

Sherlock stared at the paper and began to laugh. It started out as a quiet chuckle and grew steadily louder and louder until he was doubled over, hysterical.

James raised one quizzical eyebrow and smirked. "What are you doing, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up at his friend, still spluttering. "I did it. I bloody well did it!"

"You got your firm offer?"

"Better than that," Sherlock grinned wildly, "I beat him!"

Sherlock grabbed James' cheeks and kissed him hard on the mouth. James rolled his eyes and waited for Sherlock to calm down. James had put up with an awful lot from his sociopathic best friend over the years, and his unhealthy obsession with proving he was clever was nothing new. When he got like this, it was best to let Sherlock do as he pleased until he'd used up all his energy.

Sherlock spun around and, with a fondness that was so startlingly out of character James thought he'd finally gone mad, smiled at his friend.

"Thank you."

"Sherlock, I don't – "

"No, really. Thank you."

* * *

**A/N: Well, James finally got some of the recognition he deserved. And in case you're wondering, James got his firm offer too. I might end this here; after all, we all know roughly what happens next - Sherlock goes to Oxford, meets a man who will one day become a banker who's incredibly full of himself and then becomes the world's only Consulting Detective.**


End file.
